


Paper Planes

by sazzlette (notallbees)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Awkward First Times, Crushes, First Kiss, Irish Stereotypes, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Summer, post-HBP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-18
Updated: 2007-06-18
Packaged: 2018-07-15 17:41:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7232320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notallbees/pseuds/sazzlette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sometimes he thinks he'd rather be muggleborn like Dean than a half-blood, with all the bizarre mixing of cultures; Wizard and Muggle, Irish and English. And as if things weren't confusing enough, he had to turn out to be a fudge packer.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Having a crush on your best friend is hard work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paper Planes

**Author's Note:**

> Repost from ye olden days of fandom, so olden that I have no idea when this was in fact originally posted.

Dean doesn't mean to be a tease. He can't help it that the classroom is far too warm and it's easier to sit with his sleeves rolled up and his shirt unbuttoned a little. Dean doesn't notice Seamus watching as he draws the feathery tip of his quill along the sharp slide of his jaw and taps it once, twice, three times on his bottom lip. It isn't Dean's fault that Seamus can't look away, or the fact that Seamus can't think about anything but how tight his fucking trousers suddenly seem, and how much he'd like to unbutton that shirt all the way down.

Seamus tries to get himself under control, puts his head down to take notes and thinks about things like Umbridge taking a bath, or his mam and dad holding hands. They do that when they go out, because they know how much it embarrasses him. "You're far too old for all that bollocks," he snaps at them, shoving his hands his in pockets and ignoring their laughter.

"Hey." Seamus looks up sharply when Dean nudges him, and realises he's spent the last ten minutes just staring at his parchment. The lesson is ending and Dean sighs and begins to shove Seamus' books into his bag for him. "Wake up," he says with a smile, "Anyone'd think you wanted to stay here with McGoogles."

"Right, yeah," mutters Seamus, snatching his bag and heading for the door. He can hear Dean's footsteps behind him but right now he needs to be alone, needs to think. Again. It's happened again; he's caught himself staring. Staring at his best friend like some kind of bloody poof.

Seamus ducks down a corridor, away from Dean's shouts and the press of students that smell of summer and heat and magic. He doesn't know where he's going. Nowhere in particular. Reaching a dead end he shoves his bag to the floor in frustration and throws a punch at the nearest wall. A second later he regrets it and shouts angrily as he curls his hand into his chest. He hasn't hit it hard enough to do himself much damage, but he'll probably have bruises there later.

It's all Dean's fault. All Dean's fucking fault. Seamus doesn't care if he's being irrational and unfair because _this_ is unfair. This constant nagging, tugging, gnawing, as if he's three times too big for his skin. He hates the way he can't sit next to Dean without fidgeting, fingers constantly playing and moving, always shifting in his seat and watching Dean out of the corner of his eye. And Dean just sits there calmly, watches Seamus with an amused tilt to his expression. Always so bloody calm. The way he just takes the quill out of Seamus' fingers and lays it gently on the desk, then folds his hands in front of him. Like he's showing Seamus the _proper_ way to behave in class, as if he never sits and laughs like an idiot, their heads bent in towards one another as they plot and joke and smile.

Picking up his bag, Seamus trudges along the corridor feeling sulky. Sometimes he thinks he'd rather be muggleborn like Dean than a half-blood, with all the bizarre mixing of cultures; Wizard and Muggle, Irish and English. And as if things weren't confusing enough, he had to turn out to be a fudge packer. Maybe he'll be alright. Maybe this is just a blip on the sonar. Seamus laughs aloud at that thought. Dean, a blip? Dean's a fucking iceberg.

"Hello stranger," says a voice nearby, and Seamus stops. "Where did you go?"

"For a wank, where d'you think?" Seamus hates the way Dean makes him feel so off-kilter these days, like he never used to. So he grabs the upper hand between his teeth and bites down hard. Perhaps he's hoping Dean will be caught off guard, that there'll be something in his expression, anything, to give Seamus a clue, a way in. But he just laughs, like he always does.

"I think I've heard enough about you and your cock to last me a lifetime." Dean throws an arm around his shoulders and grins. "Come on, I'm starving."

 

\--

 

"But what if you'd been caught?"

Seamus ignores him and continues to shove potatoes in his mouth. He's not really hungry, he just likes eating.

"I mean, what if a first year had found you or something?" Dean's laughing now, smothering it in his glass.

"They'd have been blessed, that's what."

Dean chokes on his drink and makes a vague sound of protest as pumpkin juice somehow gets up his nose.

"Don't mock. It's practically a religious experience, you know."

"Watching you get yourself off is hardly evangelical."

"As if you'd know."

Seamus glances up from his dinner to find Dean watching him carefully. There's no trace now of the spluttering laughter of a few moments before. There's a sense of challenge, thick and tangible in the air. This isn't a joke any more.

"Yeah," says Dean. Always the diplomatic one. "I suppose you're right."

Inexplicably angry at Dean for giving in so easily, Seamus puts his cutlery down and stares at his plate. He feels like he's walking a tightrope, one little offhand comment and off he topples again. At the moment he's still got a net, in the fact that Dean doesn't know. Dean isn't stupid though. Dean's a hell of a lot smarter than Seamus, and sooner or later he's going to work it out. They know each other too well for secrets, especially something this big. Even if he isn't sure what it is, Dean knows there's a secret as sure as he knows that Seamus' favourite drink is milk (ice cold) and that he sucked his thumb until he was thirteen.

"Come on," Dean says suddenly, grabbing his wrist across the table. "Let's go upstairs."

They practically have run of the dormitory. Harry and Ron never came back this year and Neville has been spending more and more time on his own since Christmas. It's much quieter without the others. Dean was made Prefect this year, since Ron left, so Seamus ends up spending long hours by himself, lying out on his bed and trying to fathom how the bloody hell he's managed to get into such a mess.

Any other boy, really. Anybody else and it wouldn’t be nearly so hard to deal with. Perhaps he could even tell Dean about it, and they'd laugh and Dean would say "I'm not good enough for you then" and Seamus would say "Oh no darling, you're far too butch", and it would be _fine_.

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong?"

Dean has this way of looking at him, this look that says 'I've got your number', and Seamus just knows there's no point mucking him around. But just this once it's different. This one subject they can't broach, that just sits there between them, thick and stagnant with pregnant secrecy.

"I'm just worried about NEWTS," says Seamus dismissively, flopping onto his bed. They both know it's a blatant lie because Seamus has never given a toss about exams either way, but Dean just nods and says "Yeah. Yeah, me too."

They don't say anything else, just stay like that. Seamus curled in on himself and Dean sitting on the other bed, their backs to one another. Eventually Dean gets up and cleans his teeth. Seamus pretends to be asleep already when he gets back, and before turning off the light, Dean unties Seamus' shoes for him.

 

\--

 

The last day of term, the very last day of their school career, is an odd event. There is a sense of adventure, of joy and nostalgia, but there is also fear. Voldemort's attacks have been increasing, intensifying, and everyone's just _praying_ Harry plans to do something about it soon.

Seamus is as loud and obnoxious as ever. Moreso, really, but nobody says anything. Dean laughs along with him, but he's subdued too, and the smiles don't quite melt into his eyes. On the train they snag a compartment to themselves and sit opposite one another, telling stories and jokes and trying to forget for a few hours that once they step off this train they'll be adults.

"When did it happen?" Dean asks when they're nearing London.

"When did what happen?" Seamus starts to ask, but Dean moves across to sit next to him and interrupts quickly.

"I mean, when did we grow up? When did we start being so scared?"

"Who's scared?" Seamus asks nonchalantly. "I laugh in the face of danger!"

Dean elbows him. "Stop being a dickhead. We might die, you know?"

Seamus shrugs, arm brushing against Dean's. "If we die we die. That's how these things work."

"Alright." Dean has a certain tone of voice he uses just for Seamus, half-exasperation and half-reason. "Alright. Just suppose that you know you're going to die, and there's something you have to say to somebody before it happens. What if you never do?"

"Never do what?"

"What if you never say it?"

"Then they won't know, will they?"

"Exactly," says Dean, and sits back with a thoughtful expression on his face.

Seamus glares at him for a moment, then turns away and rummages in his bag for the last chocolate frog. "I think the stress is getting to you," he says jauntily. "You've cracked under the pressure."

"Would you just stop being a pillock for five minutes?"

Sighing, Seamus slumps back into the seat and viciously bites the head off the frog. "If it's bothering you so much," he says through a mouthful of chocolate. "Then find whoever it is and tell them whatever you've got to tell them."

"Thing is," argues Dean. "I don't think they'd want to hear it. So I might as well not tell, right?"

"Well," says Seamus, rapidly losing the thread of the conversation and dropping half a dozen stitches along the way. "Well, right, yeah."

This however seems to be the wrong thing to say, and Dean turns to stare moodily out of the window. Seamus eyes him thoughtfully for a moment, then leans over and blows a very loud, very wet, and rather chocolatey raspberry on Dean's neck. Giggling, Dean tries to squirm away but Seamus hangs onto him, pulling aside the collar of Dean's t-shirt and blowing another raspberry in the hollow of his collarbone.

Still laughing, Dean pushes him away and digs his fingertips into Seamus' ribs, searching for the spots he knows are ticklish. The two of them laugh as they collapse into opposite ends of the seat, tension forgotten as they cling onto their last moments as children.

"You're an idiot," says Dean breathlessly, rubbing at his neck with his sleeve.

"Yeah," says Seamus. "I know."

 

\--

 

"Ahh you can bring this one home again," says Seamus' mother, smiling fondly at Dean and spooning him another heap of mash. "I bet he keeps his room tidy as well." Seamus, who has seen the bombsite that is Dean's bedroom, says nothing. He's laughing too hard. His mother gives him a look, but then Dean joins in and she doesn't seem to mind so much.

This is the first time Dean has been to Galway, though Seamus has been to stay with Dean a couple of times in London, the pair of them squashed up head to toe in Dean's bed because there wasn't even room on the floor for one. His mother's been sending him increasingly impatient letters all year wanting to know why he won't ask Dean to stay, is he ashamed of his family? Seamus just thinks if he ever invites Dean to stay then there won't be a part left of him that Dean hasn't touched in some way. It's self-preservation, more than anything else.

But Dean's words on the train changed something, and Seamus is tired of shoving everything down inside the way you do when you don't want to take the rubbish out, and so here they are, walking along the boardwalk and picking at a huge feathery pile of pink candyfloss. Seamus pulls off a clump, the sugary fibres sticking to his fingers as he presses it onto his top lip and gives Dean a stern look. The two of them laugh, Seamus through a mouthful of sugar, and Dean curls sticky fingers around Seamus' wrist.

"Ugh! You filthy boy," Seamus says, horrified, pulling the hand away and inspecting it. Dean's fingertips are covered in sugar and Seamus draws them into his mouth one at a time, pulling them over his tongue and sucking the sugar off.

When he looks up again, Dean is watching him uncertainly and Seamus laughs and pinches his cheek. "All better," he says, and reaches for more candyfloss.

Seamus used to think that being around Dean must be what having a brother would be like. Nowadays he realises it's nothing like. Dean's the oldest of his brothers and sisters, and the only wizard in the family. His siblings think he got a grant to go to boarding school, that he might train to be a doctor or a lawyer. Dean hasn't told his family, but he just wants to open a gallery. Seamus is the only one who knows this, and he knows about the umbrella stand by the door and the sink full of coffee stained mugs in the studio at the back. He knows about the desk covered in ink splotches and pencil shavings and half finished sketches. He knows what Dean doesn't even know – himself in the front with a book and a chocolate digestive.

That's if the dragon thing doesn't work out, of course. Seamus would like to work with dragons, but it's all the other creatures he can't seem to get on with.

 

\--

 

"You won't fucking die, will you? Promise me you won't fucking die."

Dean doesn't answer immediately, but Seamus knows he's awake, can hear his breathing, uneven and awkward. Quietly he slips off the bed and sits himself on Dean's sleeping bag.

"You're heavy," Dean moans, trying to wriggle his legs out from under Seamus.

"Shut up," snaps Seamus, leaning forwards so they're almost nose to nose in the dark. "Promise me?"

Seamus waits, his fingers curled into Dean's pillowcase, sleeping bag slippery between his knees. Dean's breath is hot and wet on the underside of his chin, seeping down his neck. It's hot. The window's flung open to catch the slightest breeze but the summer air hangs thick inside and out. The moment drags out, and they can barely see anything but they're watching each other's shadowed faces for something, anything.

Eventually Seamus gives up, and with a frustrated sigh he clambers back into his own bed, flinging the covers aside and turning to the wall. He's too wound up to sleep, but he shuts his eyes and tries anyway. Perhaps he's dozed off but he doesn't miss the tentative creep of Dean's hand across his shoulders, along with the sag of the mattress as Dean climbs onto the bed and settles behind him.

For a moment they just lie there in the dark, and then Dean shifts towards him, buries his nose in the curls at the nape of Seamus' neck and works his mouth against hot skin. "I promise."

It's far too hot with Dean pressed up against him, hot breath slipping across his shoulders, but Seamus doesn't care. He's trembling, nervous energy bubbling through him and making him suddenly alert, aware of everything, of every cell in his body. Dean's fingers are resting on his hip, hot through his t-shirt, and the sheet's too warm and rough against his skin. Seamus wriggles and rolls himself over to face Dean, swallowing hard because his stomach is threatening to crawl out of his throat. His arm's trapped beneath his side and he's so uncomfortable he wants to scream, but it's alright. It's alright.

"Thanks," he whispers, curling his left hand in Dean's t-shirt and pushing their foreheads together. "You're so hot," he adds, pulling his arm out from under him and tucking it under his head on the pillow.

"Didn't know you cared," Dean mutters sleepily, fumbling for the hand in his t-shirt. It's too hot for holding hands but Dean tangles their fingers together anyway and sighs. Seamus can feel it on his mouth and he was right, he was, so he says so.

"You're a fucking tease."

But Dean's already asleep.

 

\--

 

Having grown up with the Wizarding world, Seamus is used to the sorts of prejudices it holds, but he's never understood how Dean can just sit there and listen to Malfoy shouting _Mudblood, dirty little Mudblood_ and not bat an eyelid. Doesn't he have any pride in himself? Dean's a far better wizard than Seamus, and he works harder in class than Seamus ever would. Seamus has asked but Dean just smiles faintly and shakes his head. What he means is _you wouldn't understand_.

But Seamus thinks he does, now.

_"Oi, what the fuck are you looking at? Fucking dirty bastard—"_

_Seamus growls, takes a step forward, ready to give this cunt a piece of his mind._

_"Leave it."_

_It's Dean, quiet and firm, one hand on his shoulder._

_"Just leave it."_

_Seamus flashes the teenager a vicious look and then grabs Dean's elbow and marches him away, ignoring the wolf whistles that chase them along the street._

_"Dean-"_

_"Don't. Just don't, alright?"_

_"Fine."_

Seamus glances sideways at Dean. Head tilted back, mouth open slightly, fast asleep. Seamus thinks he gets it now. Dean does have pride in himself, and that's what stops him. The knowledge that he's better than them. That he doesn't have to sink to their level. Seamus feels horribly ashamed all of a sudden.

But he thinks he understands.

 

\--

 

"So what do you do around here for fun?"

They're sitting on a bench in the park, opened crumple of chip paper between them and the taste of salt on their fingers. Seamus shrugs, staring at his scruffy trainers.

"Cannabis?"

Dean laughs, loud and thick and Seamus loves the sound of it.

"And sometimes we beat each other up," he says, warming to his subject. "Though if we're really feeling rebellious we go to the beach and drink cider."

"I thought you all drank Guinness," Dean teases, playing along.

"Only on very special occasions," says Seamus wisely. "Then we go round and rob old people, so we can fill our pots of gold up. And after that we dress in drag and sing Danny Boy until the cows come home. Or the parents."

Dean's still laughing, and he mutters something about legs and dresses but Seamus can't make it out. "Any excuse to make a scene," Dean says breathlessly, grinning at him.

"But come you back when summer's in the meadow," Seamus sings, closing his eyes and laying a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow."

The old bench wobbles precariously as Dean doubles over, clutching at his sides as he laughs.

"'tis I'll be there in sunshine or in shadow." Seamus is singing louder now, climbing onto the bench and accidentally trampling what's left of the chips. "Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so!"

He flings his arms wide and bows, and someone from across the park yells something like 'tosser' at him, but he isn't listening because Dean is getting to his feet as well and clambering up to stand beside him on the bench slats.

"I'd love to see the whole show sometime," he says, ruffling Seamus' hair.

Seamus laughs, and has the sudden urge to grab Dean and kiss him, but decides against it. He can't even use the excuse that he slipped because Dean has always been a head taller than him (a fact which never fails to piss him off). So instead he turns and leaps off the bench. "Where to now, blossom?" he asks, holding out his hand to help Dean down.

"How about we compromise and beat each other up on the beach?"

"Sounds good to me!"

 

\--

 

Perhaps it's not so bad after all, thinks Seamus, as they tumble messily onto the sand. He pins Dean's arms and bites his shoulder just hard enough to hurt, and Dean half-laughs, half-gasps underneath him. Before Seamus can get comfortable Dean writhes and manages to shove him away, then launches himself at Seamus with a growl, knocking him onto his side and tumbling across him with the momentum of the movement.

Seamus tries to sit up but having Dean draped across him makes things somewhat difficult. He wriggles impatiently and manages to free one of his arms but Dean twists round and swings the other leg over so that he's straddling Seamus.

There's sand in his hair, Seamus can feel it rough and scratchy against his scalp. There's sand bloody _everywhere_ in fact, but just as he's contemplating the finer points of this, Dean bends down and does something interesting involving his teeth to Seamus' neck and Seamus suddenly couldn't give a toss about sand even if it is in his underwear.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he asks, trying to free himself, but his voice comes out soft and curious rather than annoyed.

"Growing up," mutters Dean, and kisses Seamus softly. It's a careful kiss, very aware of what it is – two boys with sand in their clothes who really rather ought not to be doing this.

Fuck that, thinks Seamus, as Dean pulls away looking not worried, or pleased, but resigned. As if he's expecting Seamus to laugh and push him away and make another joke of it.

Impatient, Seamus thrashes against Dean to let him up, not that Dean puts up much of a fight, and then kneels in front of him. "You're an idiot," he says, grinning, before pulling Dean towards him and pressing their mouths together. Dean's fingers catch at his elbows and he makes a surprised sort of sound against Seamus' mouth, slipping his lips open slightly and pressing his tongue against the warm line of Seamus' bottom lip.

Seamus thinks this is worth rotten benches and his mam's teasing, and it's worth shirt sleeves and passing notes, and he pulls Dean closer as he opens his mouth against Dean's and kisses him the way he's been meaning to for a year now. It's hot and sloppy and there's too much push and not an awful lot of give, and there's still sand in his hair, and Dean tastes of vinegar, but it's bloody _brilliant_.

Dean moves his hand and twists his fingers into Seamus' dirty blond hair, fingertips trickling over the back of his neck as he tilts his head and slips his tongue into Seamus' mouth. Seamus presses his thumb against Dean's jaw, rubbing it near his chin, then halfway along, then just below his ear, and thinks he wouldn't care if they died right now because this right here is as good and as bad as things can possibly get.

There's no space between them, no room to breathe, pressed up too tight and too hot with the breeze coming off the water and shivering around them, but neither wants to be the first to let go. The same challenge is in the air again; there's something to prove. Just as Seamus is pondering this and wondering if his hard-on is as obvious to Dean as it is to him, they're both spared the agonising decision of whether or not to stop.

"Oi! Bum boy!"

Seamus looks about furiously for the source of the insult, and spots a group of teenagers sitting on the beach about thirty meters away. "Right," he says crossly, getting to his feet, but Dean gives him a stern look and he pauses. "Ohhh Danny boy," he sings loudly, hauling Dean to his feet and spinning him round. "Oh Deany boy, I love you so!"

The two of them run, laughing breathlessly, Seamus' hand still tight on Dean's wrist, both ignoring the jeers that follow them as they run along the line of surf.

 

\--

 

It's about a half an hour walk back to Seamus' house, and they take the long way round, talking about Quidditch and football and Mrs Finnigan's cooking, and deliberately not mentioning what happened on the beach. When they finally get back they stand on the front step while Seamus fumbles in his pocket for his door key. Deciding he's lost it, he goes to ring the doorbell but pauses with his finger on the button and turns to look at Dean.

"Of all the beaches in all the world you had to beat me up on that one."

They're both so distracted by the ensuing laughter and subsequent snogging that they don't notice the door opening.

"Dean Thomas you put that boy down right now!" shouts Mrs Finnigan, looking cross. "You don't know where he's been."

"Mam!” yells Seamus, throwing her a filthy look. "We’re busy!”

She ignores him and glances from one to the other. "Well, this explains a lot. Come on, get inside. And just be glad that I opened the door and not your father."

"Yeah well, he already thinks I'm a freak," says Seamus bitterly, following her inside.

"No, he doesn't. He loves you."

"He chases me with a stick."

"That was only once. Come on, in the kitchen, the pair of you"

Seamus turns to Dean and heaves a long-suffering sigh. "And you wonder why I'm mad as a brush."

"Boys!"

\--

"The woman's a maniac," mutters Seamus crossly, ripping his shirt off and chucking it across the room. "I mean, what kind of mother does that to her only child?" He reaches for the fly on his jeans and yanks them down, half-tripping as he stumbles out of them.

"She's only doing it because she-"

"She loves me, yeah. Not because she's a sadistic cow."

Dean smothers a laugh and watches Seamus as he storms around the room, kicking things and shouting insults at his mother. Seamus tries to kick Dean's sleeping bag but it gets tangled around his feet and he trips over, landing half on the bed with an angry grunt. Grinning, Dean slips off the bed and sits on him.

"Stop making such a fuss," he says quietly, and leans in to kiss Seamus. But their lips have barely touched before they hear a bell ringing and Seamus' mother shouts up the stairs.

"Don't think I don't know what you're doing up there, Seamus Finnigan!"

"Aargh!" shouts Seamus, pushing Dean off him and kicking the door. "Her and that fucking spell!"

"What was that?" Dean asks as he straightens out the sleeping bag before pulling himself back onto the bed.

"Her mother used to use it on her," says Seamus, grimacing. "When she had boyfriends over. Means I can't touch you without my mother knowing about it."

Dean looks like he's trying not to laugh again and Seamus glares at him. "Fine, fine. Laugh. But I'll tell you this, Thomas. You'll never get your hands on my lucky charms. Ever." Dean collapses on the bed, eyes screwed shut as he laughs loudly, and Seamus grins and makes to join him, but then he remembers the spell. "Ahh this is bollocks," he snaps, sitting himself on the sleeping bag to sulk.

"Well look, it's only for tonight."

"You don't know my mother," Seamus replies bitterly, and then drops his voice. "And anyway, you might have changed your mind in the morning."

"Come on," says Dean. "Let's get to bed."

If Seamus was listening he'd recognise the tone in Dean's voice, the one that whispers and teases _I've got an idea,_ but he isn't paying attention. "Fine," he says, flicking off the light switch and climbing into bed. "Fine."

They lie in the dark, listening to the faint muffled sound of the TV downstairs, and each other's breathing overlaying it, soft, nervous. Seamus closes his eyes and wills himself to relax. They can get away from his mother tomorrow, and maybe Dean won't change his mind. Then he starts to worry that he'll change his mind, but the fighting on the beach and the chocolate digestive make him think that no. No, he won't.

"Budge up."

"What are you doing?"

"You'll see," mutters Dean, shoving him out of the way through the blanket and clambering onto the bed. Seamus can hardly see a thing in the dark but he can just make out Dean's outline, can see Dean lying down beside him, on top of the sheets, and reaching into his boxers.

"Oh Christ," whispers Seamus, unable to look away as Dean loops finger and thumb around his cock and strokes it once, lazily. Seamus can hardly get his own underwear off fast enough.

"Slowly," whispers Dean, laying his head on the pillow beside Seamus so that they're facing one another. He closes his eyes for a second, and when he opens them again Seamus can see the faint flash of teeth as he smiles.

Seamus groans and curls his fingers around himself, eyes wide as he tries to take in Dean's shadowed expression and the vague movement of his arm, imagining it's Dean's hand on him rather than his own. He opens his mouth, wanting to say something, anything, but then Dean moans quietly and Seamus doesn't think he knows how to form coherent speech any more. They both shift forward a little, their noses barely inches apart on the pillow. Downstairs the TV is switched off and there's just the sound of their awkward breathing layered with the rasp of skin against fabric, and the quiet arpeggio of moans that they try to bite back, breath hot over each other's faces.

Arching his back, Seamus curls his fingers tighter, wrist moving more quickly against his hip. Dean licks his bottom lip and Seamus chokes back a groan, shifting his head on the pillow again, trying desperately to reach Dean but hold himself back at the same time. They almost kiss, hot breath sliding slickly between their parted lips – so close they might as well be touching, and then Dean tips his head back and moans, hand moving frantically under his t-shirt.

Through the thin sheets Seamus can feel Dean's movements, can feel his thigh hot and solid and the beat of his knuckles against his stomach. Trying not to close his eyes, desperate to catch every tiny detail, Seamus twists his hand sharply, gasping as his orgasm shivers through him, humming along his arms and fingers, and making him writhe with pleasure. He keeps his eyes on Dean's face, watching as Dean's mouth falls open and his whole body rolls with the tide of his orgasm.

They stare at one another in the dark as their breathing levels out and the sweat on their skin dries and cools them off.

Seamus licks his lips and grins. "We're completely fucked, aren't we?"

Dean laughs. "Yeah. Yeah, I think we are."


End file.
